Goodbye, Yellow Brick Road
by Adara-chan67
Summary: Just a little one-shot written for a couple of really great guys. Takes place just after the Pilot and involves Dean, Sam, a funeral, and a bottle of hooch. Nothing too original here, and it's not my best writing, but I hope you'll read it anyway!


_Disclaimer: I don't own _Supernatural _or its characters or its plotline or anything that could possibly make a person a buck._

_Characters: Sam and Dean Winchester _

_Warnings: "Pilot" spoilers_

_Setting: Between "Pilot" and "Wendigo"_

* * *

**In loving memory of Doug Beaver and Dave Rogers.**

**We'll miss you, guys.**

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Goodbye, Yellow Brick Road

No one wants to hear the words.

"_I'm sorry."_

"_They're in a better place now."_

"_They're not suffering anymore."_

They're all just platitudes, pointless and empty, and no one really wants to hear them.

Sam Winchester was no different.

XXX

"Sam? It's time to go."

Sam glanced up to the motel room doorway, his fingers freezing. He didn't say anything, and after a moment his brother sighed and stepped into the room, over to the bed. Wordlessly he pulled Sam to his feet and removed the tie gently from Sam's hands, tying it easily as he asked, "Are you sure you want to do this?"

Sam shrugged.

"'Cause you don't have to, ya know," Dean pressed. "We could just hang around here, watch some girly movie or something."

Sam felt his lips twitch in the faint shadow of a smile that was all he'd been able to manage for the last couple of days and said quietly, "No, I couldn't."

Dean finished the tie and stepped back, making sure it was straight. "Yeah, I know."

"You could, though," Sam offered. "I can go alone."

Dean huffed. "Forget it, Sammy, you're not gonna be able to shake me today. Now come on, we're supposed to be there in ten minutes."

XXX

Sam got so tired of graveyards sometimes that he felt like if he set foot in one more he'd try to come up with a diabolical plan to nuke every single one of them, but he was only realizing now that he'd never been to an actual funeral.

He knew now that he'd gotten the better end of the deal, because after ten minutes in the chair at the back of the church he felt like jumping out of his skin, or bursting into tears, or some mixture of the two. And if Dean hadn't been sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with him, he probably would have.

It got worse after the service, because after the service came the part where Sam had to talk to Jess's family and their friends.

Dean wanted to leave. Sam knew he did, knew his brother worried about him staying and talking about his dead girlfriend to the people he was going to be leaving behind within days, and it probably wasn't an unreasonable worry.

But it _was_ a worry that Sam intended to ignore, because he had to do this—he was certain of it.

He held that certainty right up until the priest came up to him and put a hand on his shoulder and said sincerely, "I'm very sorry for your loss," and Sam punched him in the jaw.

XXX

It wasn't their most graceful exit, but they managed not to get arrested, and Dean got Sam out of there quickly enough that he only actually got one punch in.

It was enough for him to apologize about forty or so times, though, as he and Dean worked their way steadily through a bottle and a half of Jack Daniels that night.

"I should've tol' him," Sam muttered, downing another shot and holding out his shot glass so Dean could pour in some more.

"Told him what?" Dean asked, his hand perfectly steady as he poured—he'd had about half of what Sam had drunk already.

"Tol' him I was sorry," Sam said, as if it were perfectly obvious.

"For what?"

"'Cause I _hit_ him, Dean. In his _face."_

"Yes, you did, and that was a _damn_ good punch."

"Not makin' 't better."

"Seriously, Sam, I'm sure it's happened to him before. He'll get it."

"Well, yeah, 'cause he's all holy and all…hey, since I hit him, does that mean 'm gonna get smited?"

"…I don't think that's a word."

"_De-ean!"_

"No, Sam, you're not gonna get smited. Smote. Smoted. Whatever." Dean took another shot—he was definitely getting buzzed now, but Sam had taken four more shots during this conversation alone, and _he_ was actually swaying where he sat.

"_Should_ be," Sam muttered suddenly, holding out his shot glass again.

Dean filled it and asked, "Should be what?"

"_Smoted._ I should be, ya know?"

"Uh…no…"

"Oh…well, tha's okay, I'll tell you. 'S 'cause I killed Jess, see…" Sam nodded wisely and held out his shot glass again.

Dean didn't move this time. "Say it again?"

"Say what?"

"Sam, you didn't kill Jess."

"Did, too…died 'cause she met me…stupid…thought I could have a life…stupid…"

"Okay, Sasquatch, I think you've had enough. Come on, let's get you in bed."

"'M sorry…"

"Yeah, sure."

"So sorry…"

"Got nothin' to be sorry for, Sammy."

"Sorry…"

Dean finished heaving his brother into bed on the last "sorry" and pulled the covers over him. "Just go to sleep, Sammy."

"Can't…might…ceiling…might…fire…can't…slee—"

Dean waited until he heard a snore and then leaned in close to whisper, "'S'not your fault. I'll make you see that, kiddo."

XXX

No one wants to hear the words, but we say them anyway. What else can we do? We have no reasoning, no wisdom, and so sometimes we are just left with the emptiness of words.

But sometimes, for a lucky few people, there is more left than that.

Sam was one of those people, because Dean was still there when he woke up the next morning. He was stretched out next to Sam on the bed, reading a magazine. He'd slept the entire night Sam's bed, and Sam hadn't had a single nightmare.

Sam shifted a little and heard Dean lay the magazine down.

"Sammy?"

Sam groaned in response. "Hurts…"

"Head?"

"And stomach…and everything else…tastes like something died in my mouth…"

"Well, that's pretty common after a drinking binge."

"Ugh…feel like I'm gonna die."

"You're not," Dean said quietly—and very, very firmly.

"I was joking, Dean."

"I wasn't."

Sam looked up at him, blinking against the eye-watering pain, and after a moment said, "I know you weren't."

Dean let him lay there in silence for a while, but then he said, "Sammy, I want you to know—if I could change this for you, if I could go through this myself—I would."

Sam leaned against Sam's shoulder, closing his eyes. He listened to the rustle of Dean turning pages in the magazine and thought that there were some words he didn't mind hearing.

* * *

"_Forever seems such a short time ago._

_Farewell is like the end._

_But in my heart's the memory,_

_And there you'll always be."_

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_Author's Note: I know it was short and random, but I wrote it in about an hour, so that's only to be expected. I hope you all liked it okay._

_Also, for those of you waiting for a new chapter of RTW, it'll be up ASAP. It just hasn't been a very good month. Sorry for the wait, y'all, and thanks for your patience!_


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